


In the Night Garden

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, For The Revolution, In Public, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why are two young men having a furtive tête-à-tête in the most secluded hedgerow of the Jardin des Tuileries, shrinking ever further into the shadows whenever it looks like they might be seen or overheard?</p><p>...blowjobs, officer. Embarrassing as it is to admit it, the answer is blowjobs. It certainly has nothing to do with handoffs of subversive pamphlets or illicitly-manufactured gunpowder. No, sir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Night Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (and summary) from here: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=9573040#t9573040

To the casual observer there was nothing curious about the two young men who strolled arm-in-arm and spoke in such low tones. Perhaps it was unusual that they had chosen such a time for a walk, but the dishevelled quality of their clothes marked them out as students- who like rats, declined to abide by proper timekeeping, and so they passed generally unnoticed as they walked down the paths. There was a thick, clinging, sweet scent in the air, unusual for this time of year, and Combeferre could not resist pausing to wrestle a sprig from a bush that had flowered early and tucking it into his buttonhole. It was more garish once parted from the green of the leaves, but the moonlight softened the harsh colours and over all he was not dissatisfied by the effect. Enjolras had withdrawn his arm for the moment, as though he could not countenance Combeferre's taste.

 

His distance was only held for a second though, before he tucked his hand under Combeferre's elbow and led him away again, taking the opportunity of the deserted walk to discreetly inquire as to the provenance and the quality of the gunpowder that their friend René had assured them would be ready for them as soon as they should require it. Combeferre thrust his fingers within his pocket and encountered there the sample that René had procured for him, and with some disregard for safety had wrapped only within paper. Before he withdrew it though, in low muttered tones he made his report.

 

They had suspected for some time that despite every precaution they had taken against such a circumstance, there were spies upon the loose and in light of this every measure possible had been implemented to ensure that their plans had time to come to fruition. Thus although the Café Musain was still their face to the world, Enjolras received the reports of his lieutenants in this fashion- lip to ear where the precious details could be safest. Now he listened carefully to Combeferre, his finely cut face displaying little movement as he absorbed the news- from the good (the tentative outreach to the good men of Picpus- the alive ones at least, had proved successful,) to the poor (the failure of six muskets to discharge successfully during the one test permitted).

 

They had upon their promenade strayed into the less visited and yet more active parts of the garden where the rustling of leaves betrayed that they were not alone, the spot a popular one it seemed, for lovemaking of a type. Enjolras had not observed this, intent as he was upon the problems posed by the faulty powder that had caused the weapons to misfire- or so Combeferre believed from his initial investigation into musketry. He had made something of a study of it in the past weeks, setting aside his more frivolous pastimes- which though more pleasing to the soul, had not the utility of this endeavour. Combeferre had dismissed them with a glance and with a swift look around him, beckoned Enjolras closer to a tree in order that he could display the sample of gunpowder he had received and of which he hoped good things.

 

Enjolras was fingering the gunpowder to test the fineness of the grain when he tensed so imperceptibly that if Combeferre had not been so close he would not have observed it at all. As it was he reacted instinctively to it, freezing in his turn and gazing at Enjolras's face for a cue. With the slightest gesture of his head, Enjolras intimated to Combeferre that there was a man behind them. The gunpowder in his hands, the sheaf of documents tucked inside his jacket that, if not incriminating entirely would be the cause of grave suspicion if a spy should peruse them and not the least the letter he knew Enjolras carried against his breast all weighed heavy upon the moment. For a moment the entire tableau was frozen and then Combeferre did the only thing that seemed to him could save the situation, taking his cue from the usual purpose of these bushes. Placing one hand upon Enjolras's shoulder he kissed him swiftly, a brush of their lips to acquaint Enjolras with his solution to this predicament.

 

Understanding flared in Enjolras's eyes and with no doubt or hesitation, with the resolution that he brought to bear upon every detail of the revolution, he absorbed and processed what Combeferre proposed, and hastily brought their lips together again in a clumsy kiss, the inexperience evident to Combeferre but not apparent to the world. Without seeming to move, he turned so that Combeferre could observe the man who under the shade of another tree was watching them.

 

Combeferre could not help thinking that it would not have been possible for the man to write his profession more clearly upon his features than he had done. From the slouched quality of his figure, to the shabby coat, and the scarred face, there was hardly anything else that could have screamed agent of the police more clearly to Combeferre's eye, and he was watching them all too intently, a hand inside his pocket, presumably grasping a pistol within the old fashionedly capacious skirts of his coat. His mind worked at the problem posed to him so suddenly- how to extricate themselves from these suspicious circumstances without being arrested, and though he believed that they had somewhat absolved themselves from suspicion due to their prompt action, more was required. Enjolras had independently arrived at the same conclusion it seemed from the firm hand that had latched itself into Combeferre's collar, fingers grazing his neck and the muffled words against his lips.

 

Combeferre did not account himself as much a man of the world as Courfeyrac, being a nature at once more concerned with the human tale and less desirous of direct exposure, but still in his quiet way his experience was an order of magnitude greater than that of Enjolras, and though he would happily follow the dictates of his captain in the attempt they were to make against the ordered strictures of the world, in this he was inevitably the leader. Kisses would not satiate the spy for long, that was plain, for no-one in the world would meet in the Gardens to exchange near chaste touches, but he shuddered at the idea of pressing forward. When he caught the eyes of Enjolras though, his doubts subsided at the grim determination within them, and he knew beyond doubt that whatever they must do, Enjolras would acquiesce in and that with the characteristic swiftness of his nature he had allotted to Combeferre the decision on how to proceed, recognising in him the germ of knowledge that Enjolras lacked in this matter.

 

It was with a commendable lack of hesitation Combeferre believed, that he dropped to the ground, knelt amongst the mulch and the soft earth of the ground, and leaned his head against Enjolras's hip. Against his will he felt his excitement stir, though he was not sure if it was the feel of Enjolras's lean thigh against his cheek, the exposed nature of their situation or some perverse impulse within himself that knew no name, and would submit to no classification. He wasted no time in chastising himself however. Enjolras had wound his fingers into his hair to further complete the illusion of being overcome with lust, and he ran his hands down Enjolras's narrow hips, fastened them upon the snugly clothed legs and pressed himself as close as he could manage, wondered for a moment if this would be enough, if the spy would be satisfied by this charade, but when he ceased for a moment, Enjolras tugged a strand of hair as though in warning and with that Combeferre bent himself to his task once again.

 

He would be lying if he said the thought of this had never crossed his mind however idly, he had known his proclivities long before, and he knew better that to condemn himself for that, but still his breath drew short at the thought of what they were about to do, his lips gone dry, his mouth parched. Enjolras was soft still within the confines of his trousers, and it was with shaking fingers that Combeferre unclasped the fastening and drew out Enjolras's prick. It had been in his mind to dissemble, not to take Enjolras within his mouth, to save them both from this performance by acting a part, but that fled now when confronted by reality and he looked to Enjolras for confirmation- this charade could end in a moment if he but gave the word, they could both brazen it out and take their chances with the cells. From where he knelt though, he could see the fierce droop of Enjolras's eyes, the stern shape of his mouth and the brief nod he gave.

 

Once, a long time ago, Combeferre had done this in a summer-hot field, book tossed to the side unheeding, the folly of youth dashing headlong into the unknown, scent of warm hot flesh filling his senses, as drunk on sour red wine in the middle of the day, he'd put into practice half-formed notions gleaned from vague classical allusions, repeated upon the body of his friend the vices he’d half read, half dreamed of.

 

This was as much different as it was the same, it was Enjolras beneath his hands, Enjolras who filled his senses until he could scarce believe there was anything else in the world. Enjolras was still not hard and Combeferre was distractedly aware that the same thing could not be said for him, but he pushed that away, took a breath and then cradled Enjolras with his hand, bowed his head to the task set before him and began. He didn't know what he had expected but nothing shattered, nothing fell, there was no heavy hand on his shoulder yanking him back, demanding that he empty his pockets, that this joke has gone far enough. Enjolras didn't tug away, instead he jerked forward unsteadily and Combeferre was too dazed by how fast all this has moved to interpret what that meant. He paused for a second, and realised that Enjolras was losing his composure if the restless twitch of his hips was anything to go by, the slow, sudden hardening of his prick under the warmth and wetness of Combeferre's mouth.

 

Combeferre could feel the change take place under his tongue, and the arousal that blinked through him was blinding, he could not even quantify it or imagine replicating it, surely nothing could compare to that moment where he could feel the difference in Enjolras, could be the catalyst of that change, and he backed off for a second, to regroup and gasp at the air, and now when he leant forward again to take Enjolras in his mouth, Enjolras's prick was almost fully hard. Combeferre could feel his stomach lurch at the thought as once again he folded his lips around the head and sucked gently, no shame stirred in him, not when he could have this, Enjolras undone, his thighs tense and tight and Combeferre could not resist touching him, smoothing a hand down his leg as though to gentle him, repressing another sharp shock of feeling as Enjolras relaxed under his touch, the heady mixture of being on his knees and knowing how much Enjolras trusted him potent in his gut.

 

His own prick throbbed against his thigh and if he had had a hand free he would have touched himself- decency bedamned, but one hand was steadying Enjolras, holding his prick in hishand, stroking the length that couldn't fit in his mouth, and the other had found its way to the skin revealed between the lowered trousers and Enjolras's shirt as though it had a mind of its own, fingers taking in the coolness of the exposed flesh, the surprising softness so different to the harshness of the man it belonged to, as though some secret was exposed to Combeferre alone like this.

 

Enjolras's fingers were in his hair still, and when Combeferre dared to steal a glance upwards, Enjolras's eyes were open but only just, and Combeferre would've wagered his mind was no longer on the man watching them, if he was even still there after this. He could feel the tremors in Enjolras's frame that communicated themselves through his hands, the fingers tugging accidentally at strands of his hair, sending sharp-ish shocks through Combeferre's scalp, as his prick slipped from Combeferre's mouth for an instant when he drew back too far. He took in again near instantly and Enjolras looked down at him now, not into the distance and without looking Combeferre could sense the power of that gaze turned on him, the concentrated essence of Enjolras's focused attention, riveting, terrifying, ferocious in its implacability. He allowed himself to avoid that look in the contemplation of his task. Face to face, he could meet with Enjolras on any discussion, temper that radiant cold sternness, gentle and strengthen him for the task they would face along with their friends, had for the sake of Enjolras, fortified himself against Enjolras.

 

Like this however, those defenses were for the moment down, they were stripped away for the second between them both and he didn't know what was written on his face, preferred to keep it hidden for the moment, as inscrutable as he could be, not lashed and raw and open. He had always known that he would die for the cause that he and Enjolras had nurtured between them, that it was a sacrifice that he would make when the time came if it was necessary, but he had not known how deep that ran, what he would do.

 

Enjolras's hips shifted and his prick filled Combeferre's mouth, pressed against the back of his throat for a long, unyielding moment before he drew back and Combeferre muffled the noise he almost made in the solidness of Enjolras's flesh. In the lack of Enjolras continuing in the same vein to make use of his mouth, Combeferre continued in the path he had trodden out, privately impressed by Enjolras's endurance, given his stoic ignorance of human desire before this day as far as Combeferre could tell. Combeferre could hardly take anymore of it though, of Enjolras's fingers in his hair, his prick in his mouth, the overwhelming nature of what was happening, and yet at the same time it was not enough, there was a deep hunger that went untouched and unexplained even by himself that could not be fulfilled in this fashion. His own prick was swollen still though untouched, and with an almost guilty hand he set his fingers above it, unbelieving at his arousal, ashamed at this acknowledgement that it was not merely from necessity that he did this, could not resist slipping one hand around his own length through his trousers as he sucked Enjolras with more strength than form, and at the first brush of his fingers, he came, helplessly, futilely, his hips arched against his hand, Enjolras's prick smearing wet against his face for a long second, before it found his mouth again.

 

It was that it seemed, that meant Enjolras came also in a hot wet flood that Combeferre swallowed without thinking to the best of his ability. Enjolras did not withdraw instantly, instead he shuddered out the finish of his climax and then leant against the tree for long moments, his breath rapid and out of control, and Combeferre found himself reluctant to rise, to brush himself down and face Enjolras once more standing, his trousers damp with his own come, the traces of Enjolras on his cheek, the lingering dying sparks of first, arousal then orgasm no longer cushioning what they had done together.

 

It was Enjolras in the end who fumbled his trousers shut and then cupped his hand around Combeferre's elbow and helped him rise, brushed him down with clumsy hands and shuttered eyes. The little man who'd watched them was gone, either convinced by their display or a mere voyeuristic stranger all along, and Combeferre could almost wish for his presence back, for words to be impossible in this moment. He scooped the little folded paper slip of gunpowder up from the ground where he had dropped it and proffered it to Enjolras with a wry smile. Enjolras looked at him for a long moment and pressed his hand, murmured a thank you that had more than one purpose, and took Combeferre's arm once again to walk on, the incident already in the past as far as he was concerned, and Combeferre gingerly allowed himself to emulate Enjolras's unconcern.

 

They were as far as the yellow rose bushes when Enjolras halted once more. "I hope you are not too distressed?" he asked, and Combeferre touched more than he could say by the gesture, squeezed his arm.

 

"I shall be well," he said and that was not a lie.


End file.
